


A Refuge from the Cold

by Inquisitwhore (SOMNlARl)



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Caretaking, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3067079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMNlARl/pseuds/Inquisitwhore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a LJ da_kinkmeme prompt.  Cullen is sick and needs Dorian to take care of him.  Bonus for not admitting it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on tumblr [here](http://dragonagesinquisition.tumblr.com/). And give me all your prompts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Commander! Just coming to remind you that it’s nearly time for your weekly loss to ‘the evil'… are you alright? You look, if I may borrow a phrase from our dear Elven archer, like shite.” Dorian’s voice almost sounded concerned under his usual swagger but Cullen was sure that was just his imagination._

Ever since they left Haven Cullen had been tired. The journey through the mountains had been long and bitterly cold. He had given his overcoat to cover one of the wounded leaving him to stumble for what felt like weeks through the blizzard in nothing but his armor. Even after they were able to stop, make camp and raise a few fires they still had days afterwards of travel through deep snow to reach Skyhold. There were too many wounded, even more than the dead they’d left behind, and all needed assistance from the too few left standing strong. Since their arrival he’d barely had any time to get some much needed rest. The troops needed to be situated, there were seemingly endless letters to be written to the families of those they had lost, debriefings and meetings to attend, requisition orders to be placed, the fortress needed repairs and fortifications and everywhere he looked someone seemed to need something from him. 

The hours he’d spent in the war room today had felt even longer than usual. He’d found it difficult to concentrate and had little patience for Josephine’s talk of which noble was at Skyhold today and how they were to be handled. He felt ashamed to think of how he had almost snapped at her when she went on a bit too long about Orlesian dining customs and when to perform which traditional dance. He knew they needed to prepare for Empress Celene's ball but this level of detail seemed unnecessary to him, it wasn't as though he intended to do anything at the ball but try to blend into the background to watch, avoiding all of the pointless social climbing. At that point Leliana had given him _a look_ and declared that clearly they all needed rest and ordered their day over. He had intended to stay and go through some of the pending missions, needing to spend some time sorting out strategies but she'd shooed him vehemently out of the room, nearly pushing him out the door. Despite his annoyance he had been grateful for the reprieve, his flask was dry but he was still so thirsty, an unusual ache spreading through the back of his throat. _It’s nothing, it can’t be. Some tea, a little sleep and I’ll be fine, I have to be. I don't have time for anything else_ he thought as he made his way through Josephine’s office and out the Great Hall. 

Despite being stopped several times by runners with pointless questions, Cullen finally made it to his office. It felt unusually stuffy and hot, as though the air had grown thick and stagnant - it threatened to choke him. He threw off his coat and stalked onto the battlements, watching his men training in the courtyard from above. Leaning against a parapet he cleared his throat gingerly then took a sip of water from his flask to ease the tiny knives that seemed to have settled there. Instead of relieving the pain the water brought on a cough, deep and harsh, that threw his whole body forward. It seemed to last forever, he could feel his cheeks reddening with the effort as he struggled to regain his breath. Finally he was able to take in a deep breath and stand up straight again, focusing his attention back on the courtyard below. It was just a few brief moments later that he heard footsteps, light and brisk, against the stone walkway. 

Cullen turned his head and groaned softly when he saw who was approaching. Dorian. Despite himself he had found himself growing fond of the mage since he joined the Inquisition. He had not trusted the man at first, thinking him a pretentious, spoiled noble whose first contribution was to nearly get the Inquisitor stuck in time with Corypheus taking over the world. But Dorian had more than proved himself to the cause, throwing himself into whatever battle the Inquisitor needed fought and befriending everyone. _Well, nearly everyone_ Cullen thought ruefully, remembering Dorian’s latest argument with Lady Vivienne. Despite Cullen’s initial reservations towards any mage, including the Inquisitor, Dorian had become a friend. They played weekly chess matches, spoke for what felt like hours on end, went drinking at the tavern at the end of their long days and Cullen had even confessed some of the circumstances surrounding his reticence towards magic to Dorian for the first time since Kirkwall. It had felt good to get that off his chest and it was helpful that the mage, being from Tevinter, had little knowledge about templars at all, not to mention what had happened at the Circles in the south and thus no ingrained prejudices. Recently he had begun to look forward to Dorian's company, had missed him when he was away from Skyhold on a mission and had started craving his attention and their rapport - it was almost flirtatious, but surely what they shared was just what Dorian shared with every member of the Inquisition. Cullen suspected it was no different. Either way there was something alluring about Dorian, something in the way he walked - as though he would take the world with him. Certainly the mage was attractive - too attractive for he all too clearly knew the power he could wield over others. Cullen snapped his head back forward, hoping that Dorian hadn’t seen him watching. 

“Commander! Just coming to remind you that it’s nearly time for your weekly loss to ‘the evil'… are you alright? You look, if I may borrow a phrase from our dear Elven archer, like shite.” Dorian’s voice almost sounded concerned under his usual swagger but Cullen was sure that was just his imagination. 

"I'm fine. It's just a headache, nothing more." He raised his fingers to his temples and rubbed slow circles in a manner he hoped was convincing. He had been having more headaches than usual lately, an unfortunately frequent side effect of the lyrium withdrawal. How was Dorian to know that he did not have one right now? It so easily could have been true it was hardly a lie. A frigid wind caught him, teasing at his skin under his cloak which prickled into gooseflesh and he sniffled, it sounded heavier and wetter than he’d anticipated and he cringed, he saw Dorian raise an eyebrow at the sound. 

He was silent for a moment and then... “Apologies. It’s quite cold today, it must be the wind...” 

“And here I would have thought that dead animal draped around your shoulders would block out even the coldest gale. Could it be, our illustrious commander from the frigid wastes of the Frostbacks, has caught a chill? I thought you southern barbarians were immune.” 

“No, I have not. I’m perfectly well, I... I'm just tired... and my head is throbbing. Go. Away.” Cullen glared, willing him to turn tail and flee as his unfortunate runners did when given the same look. It didn’t work. The effect may have been lessened by the shiver that overtook him as he spoke. The mage took a step closer and narrowed his eyes at him, searching Cullen's face with an intensity that made him more than a little bit nervous. 

Tired eyes. A slight flush on his cheeks contrasting sharply against his paler-than-usual skin. Mouth hanging ever so slightly open. A light sheen of sweat on his forehead and his hair more mussed than usual, one of the curls sticking to his brow. _How stupid does he think I am? Lyrium headache indeed..._ Dorian thought. 

“Of course, Commander” he acquiesced. “You will remember our game this afternoon? Or will you be too busy, off saving the world with your maps and figures?”

Cullen glared at him. His work _was_ important, even if he didn’t accompany the Inquisitor into battle but he couldn't help the flash of frustration at being reminded that he was stuck behind a desk when he would have rather been out with his sword. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world” he said from behind clenched teeth, grateful for the momentary rush of anger as it hid the rasp in his voice, turning it into a low growl.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Reading the first report he found it difficult to focus, he felt distant, like his eyes wouldn’t quite take in what was in front of them. Something about the Fallow MIre… missing soldiers… barbarians… he knew this was important but was suddenly so exhausted._

He did miss it. Of course.

Back in his office Cullen looked down at his desk, covered in even more reports and stacks of paper than when he’d left earlier, and sighed heavily. _Does it never end?_ he thought to himself, sifting through one report and then the next. He shivered involuntarily and pulled his cloak tighter, he would have sworn that just an hour ago it had been stiflingly hot… perhaps he had left the door open? Either way, he thought he really must see about getting a fireplace in his quarters. It seemed to him that was the least that could be organized if he was going to have to continue without an entire roof. He poured a cup of water from the jug on his desk, taking a small sip in a vain attempt to ease what had progressed from pressure to an relentless, stabbing pain in the back of his throat. Far from providing relief the water burned on the way down, forcing one ragged cough and then another until he was bent over his desk, one hand pushing against the wood for support and the other massaging the base of his neck. He took a shaky breath in and cleared his throat gingerly, wincing at the raw, wicked wound it had become. The pain was so great he almost began to wonder if there actually were tiny daggers in there - perhaps Lady Vivienne’s spirit blades? _No, that was ridiculous. Don't be stupid, Cullen_ he thought to himself. He sniffled wetly and sank, rather unceremoniously, back into his chair with a sigh. At the very least he knew that he should look at these new reports. He sniffled again and rubbed at his nose with his cuff but found no relief, suddenly aware of the congestion that had settled in his head . He needed a handkerchief. Finding nothing in his pockets he opened one drawer of his desk and then the next, tossing out quills and papers until he finally found one. He wiped roughly at his nose and cleared his throat again, somehow still surprised at the fresh burst of pain. 

Reading the first report he found it difficult to focus. He felt distant, like his eyes wouldn’t quite take in what was in front of them. He rubbed at them, trying unsuccessfully to clear his vision. Something about the Fallow MIre… missing soldiers… barbarians… he knew this was important but was suddenly so exhausted. He stifled a yawn, turning back to the words on paper. Potential for a new agent and perhaps more signs of Wardens? A bolt of pain stabbed through his head, down into his neck and came to rest in his shoulders. He hissed softly, raising a hand to rub at his forehead. _Well, I may have been lying to Dorian before but now it's there, right on schedule._ Still, there was only another hour until his promised chess game with the mage. He could make it through this, just a few more reports, then the game, then he could finally collapse into his bed and rest. He doubted even the nightmares could keep him from a long, deep sleep now. He tried to keep reading but absorbed nothing, his head slowly dropped towards the desk until his cheek rested on the blissfully cool wood.

Just as he was beginning to drift off there was a brief knock at the door and a messenger entered with another pile of reports. Raising himself up on his forearms he glowered at the man. 

“No. Leave me” he ordered. 

“Ser?” came the hesitant reply.

“Did you not hear me, recruit? Leave.” The messenger backed away quickly through the door, pausing only to throw one final look in his direction before disappearing. 

He took another sip of water. A cup of tea would have been welcome, he was so cold… he really must see about that fireplace. He shivered again, grabbing his overcoat and throwing it over his shoulders. _There must be a draft in these rooms, it had never felt so cold before_ he thought as he got up slowly, using the edge of the desk as support, and walked towards the bookshelf. Reading through the reports from the Fallow Mire he knew he remembered a book that had detailed plague remedies. Perhaps it included something that might help those people, however many still lived.

Scanning one shelf and then the next he could feel his eyes begin to glaze over. Maker’s breath, he could not remember feeling this dreadful since he was a child. He dropped onto one knee to scan the middle shelves. Nothing. _Not unless you wanted yet another account of how the Divine took a shit on Saturday_ as he’d heard Dorian complaining about the other day. The mage did have a way with words, he’d give him that. He continued skimming the titles but found nothing… he really did need to speak to Leliana about the state of his bookshelves one of these days since she and her people were the ones who actually used them. He dropped to the bottom shelf, grateful to finally be able to fully kneel on the floor. He was so very tired but he kept searching the titles, finding nothing but dust that triggered another fit of thick, suffocating coughs. Struggling against the spasms of his lungs he slumped over further, laid his head on the floorboards and suddenly, everything was quiet and dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everything felt so heavy. Like his arms and legs had been replaced by tons of solid rock. Try as he might he couldn't open his eyes. His head was a weight, fixed to the ground where it was coolest, a tiny shard of relief..._

Two quick, bright knocks rang out. Silence. Dorian knocked again and then, when there was no answer, pushed the door open, a chess set in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. 

“Commander? I hardly think it’s right for me to be pursuing you when you couldn’t be bothered to remember our game but I never could resist a handsome man.”

No reply, neither the earnest apology he expected or the slightly sarcastic quip he hoped for.

His eyes scanned the room. Cullen was not at his desk and none of the doors were open, with how he had looked earlier Dorian doubted he would be back out on the battlements. _By the stars_ , his eyes fell upon a hunched-over shape on the floor by the bookshelf and without a second thought he dropped the chess set on the floor. Not the wine, though. The wine he placed gently on one of the bookshelves. For later.

He took several quick steps towards the figure lying curled up on the floor. No response. “Commander?” He shook the man’s the shoulder lightly. “Cullen?”

He was rewarded with a barely audible groan. 

“Are you… alright?”

“ ‘m fine, Dorian. Go away.” The commander’s voice was hoarse, so foreign sounding that if he hadn’t been looking at him he couldn’t have sworn it was him. 

“I'm not going away, Cullen. You do not look well. At all. And you're on the floor. If I left you there I rather think I'd have the other half of Skyhold thinking I'm a monster as well.” Dorian said, exasperatedly. The man was clearly ill, that much was obvious to anyone with half a brain. Why the warrior was continuing this charade was beyond him. 

“If your supposition is correct and I am indeed ill then you should leave to avoid catching my illness. If I am correct and am fine… which I am... then I do not need you here and you should leave. Both scenarios leads to the same result - you leaving my quarters. And either way - I’m fine, perfectly well.” Cullen sounded exhausted just from the effort of speaking, he wheezed slightly drawing in his next breath. He started to cough again and pressed a fist into the center of his chest, trying to break up some of the heaviness that had come to sit on top of his ribs. He could feel the mage’s gaze boring into his head. He tried to raise himself up to meet Dorian’s eyes but his head felt so heavy, he fell back on the ground. _Shit._ He wasn't fooling Dorian, that much he knew. Cullen just wanted him to leave, or at least to stop looking at him quite like he was, his gaze heavy with accusation and worry.

“Ah, yes. This must be a definition of fine with which I am not familiar. Lying prostrate on one’s floor, clinging to a cloak for dear life. You Southerners do know how to live.” 

Dorian tried to sound light and unconcerned. He failed.

“I was tired. This was close. The floor, I mean.” Every word the commander spoke seemed to take longer than usual, as though each one sent a flash of pain through him. Dorian watched as Cullen pushed up on his forearms and rubbed his hands over his nose. He rose a bit further and scrubbed at his eyes with his knuckles. “I just need some rest. I’ll be fine.” He sneezed roughly, barely managing to raise the handkerchief over his face in time. 

"Of course. You merely sound as though that Maker-accursed bog has taken up residence in your lungs but clearly, you're fine and definitely not sick." Dorian took a few quick steps towards the man and started to gently lay the back of his palm across his forehead but Cullen reared back. His head spun from the sudden movement, a wave of dizziness crashed against him. 

“I am! Please...trust me. Just go.” Cullen’s voice was several tones lower than normal, thicker-sounding and seemed to catch in the back of his throat. He sneezed again, made an exasperated noise and groaned, blowing his nose. 

Dorian knelt and clenched his hands under the man’s armpits. “At least let me help you up and to your bed. We couldn’t have the shining jewel of our forces falling on his way up the ladder” he said, hoping to sound more casual than he felt. 

Cullen was suddenly dead weight in his arms… refusing, consciously or unconsciously, to lend any effort to Dorian’s attempts to get him back on his feet. 

* * *

Everything felt so heavy. Like his arms and legs had turned to stone and were weighing him down, keeping him tied to the ground. Try as he might he couldn't open his eyes. He didn't think he wanted to. His head was a weight, fixed to the ground where it was coolest, a tiny shard of relief... he was in the desert, he was sure of it. Everything was so hot, his throat and mouth so parched and painful. He could feel the weight of the sun beating down on him, the sweat rolling off his forehead, then everything went black. He was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of panic. It was so dark, he was stumbling through passageways, tripping on his way up the stairs and he felt the sickening sense of eyes following him.

* * *

“CULLEN!”

Cullen heard what he thought was half a sob, half a yell… just barely. He might have heard his name? But everything was so dry, so cold, so hot, so dark but not so dark that he couldn't see, just barely. He was staggering through the hallways of a forgotten circle… “get back!” he cried to one of the younger mages. Surely a child couldn’t have been possessed? Couldn’t be an abomination?

* * *

Cullen was slumped against his chest. Dorian had managed to haul him up from the floor but the man could barely stand. All of the commander’s weight fell against Dorian’s chest, pushing him backwards until he was forced to fall back on his knees. Dorian sat him back on the floor and placed the backs of his palms against his forehead, wincing slightly at the heat emanating off of him. He frowned, the commander was much too hot but still shivering as though they were outside in the snow. 

He glanced around quickly - Cullen was clearly running a high fever and he needed to find something to make him more comfortable until he was sensible again. For a brief moment he considered using a healing charm that would bring at least some temporary relief but resisted the impulse. If he could just get the man to focus on him he could give him a potion but right now he could tell that getting him to swallow anything would be next to impossible. He knew he didn’t have the strength to haul the man up the ladder to his bed. Then his eyes lit upon the commander’s coat lying on the floor just a few feet away, he snatched it up and pulled it over the general as he shivered violently. 

“Vishante kaffas...” Dorian swore under his breath, trying to get the man situated even slightly comfortably under the coat. He pulled his head onto his lap, running his fingers lightly through Cullen's hair, brushing damp curls away from his face. Cullen groaned softly as his head was raised, as though even the slightest movement was agony. 

“Are you in pain?” Dorian's voice came out clipped, almost harsh. 

“No… Please… just leave me, Dorian. Please.” Cullen croaked. His voice sounded pained, even to his ears, and he started to cough again, trying futilely to clear his lungs but to no avail. He was caught in an unceasing wave of spasms, sinking deeper into the muck, the room going dark around him except for the small flashes of light behind his eyes until he felt strong hands grabbing at his ribs and pulling him up, dragging him out from under the blackness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dorian grasped him by the shoulders, settling him softly back against the wall. He moved to the man's feet and started to unlace his boots, pulling off the left and then the right. "Andraste's tits, is everything you own this complicated to get you out of?"_

“You… idiot! You stupid, intolerable, stubborn idiot!” Dorian hissed. He was worried, he had to admit. So worried it was making him furious, he was so angry he couldn't think of any satisfying curses in any tongue. If Cullen had only said something earlier, if he’d seen one of the healers but of course he wouldn’t. Even now he could easily use healing magic to give the commander some small relief but he wouldn’t risk Cullen’s wrath over it when he was sensible again. But right now he had a problem, a large problem in the form of a man, shivering violently in all of his layers of leathers and armor, slumped against him. 

"Festis bei umo canavarum! Really, what _would_ you do without me?"

Gingerly he lowered him to the ground, leaning his back up against the bookshelf. Working quickly, he unfastened one buckle on his breastplate and then the next, his fingers fumbling slightly with the clasps. _Honestly, who wears such impractical armor? This is a ridiculous number of buckles and it's so unfashionable… and why on earth would anyone wear a full set of armor to march imperiously around Skyhold anyway?_ He seethed as he pulled it over Cullen’s head and threw it rather unceremoniously on the floor. “Well, I suppose I have been wanting to see you out of your armor but this isn’t exactly what I was imagining” he quipped. Then the gloves. As he eased the leather off Dorian paused and softly stroked the backs of the man's hands and knuckles, surprised at the softness of his skin, almost too soft for a fighting man. Cullen had opened his eyes at the sound of steel crashing on the floor and was making a valiant attempt to stay sitting up under his own power but was mostly failing, swaying slightly. Dorian grasped him by the shoulders, settling him softly back against the wall. "Andraste's tits, is everything you own this complicated to get you out of?"

* * *

_Everything hurt._

His skin ached. The backs of his eyes stung and burned as though they were on fire. His joints ached and throbbed with every small movement;, he didn't think he could support his own weight if his life depended on it. Even thinking hurt, he thought to himself that he really needed to stop doing it. His clothes seemed to be getting heavier with each passing second, pressing against him, hurting, making it difficult to breathe. He was afraid they might weigh him down completely and he’d never get back up, stuck in the snow forever. He could feel sweat beading on his upper back, sticking his shirt to his skin and he shuddered under the weight of it. _Maker, it’s so cold. Just let me die here, in this blizzard, just let me not wake up_ … and suddenly a weight was lifted and he felt blessedly warm hands on his shoulders. 

* * *

 

The door opened with a start and one of Leliana’s messengers popped through it, marching straight to Cullen’s desk. Not finding him there she looked around, confused to see him lying on the floor with the Tevinter next to him, cradling his head like you might a small child. 

“Is… everything alright, serah?” 

“What an odd question. You mean it isn’t exactly normal to find the commander of the Inquisition’s standing armies flopping around on the floor like a dying fish? How bizarre.” His voice dripped with condescension, Dorian felt a little bit bad about it but really, what an idiotic question to ask. Surely Leliana could find some better people to run her errands.

The girl blinked nervously. 

“Oh, go do something useful. Like not leaving that letter here, he's hardly going to look at it now. I assume your presence means that the other advisors will be informed as quickly as you can run back to the rookery whether I tell you to keep your mouth closed or not?”

She nodded dumbly, dropped the letter on the desk and ran back out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How are you feeling? Seriously, I mean. No more of that 'I'm fine, Dorian, really' nonsense. That wasn't working on me earlier, it certainly won't work now.” Dorian’s voice came from across the room. The mage had a small ball of bright orange fire in his hands, he mumbled words in a language that Cullen couldn’t understand and the ball grew, flickering, and slowly floated through the air until it came to rest near Cullen's desk, hovering just above the ground. The heat from it spread quickly through the room and he leaned forward to be closer to it, relishing the warmth on his skin, a look of immense gratitude on his face._
> 
>  
> 
> __

Cullen heard the door slam behind the messenger. _Wonderful_ , he thought. _Leliana probably knows already_. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus his thoughts and clear away the fog. Now there really was no hope of taking the rest of the day to rest and returning to his duties tomorrow with no one the wiser. He pulled himself up off the floor, slowly getting to his feet. His chair wasn’t that far away, only a few steps, even with the room spinning he thought he could make it. If he wasn't able to get rid of Dorian he probably should make some small effort, even if all he managed was moving a few feet. Holding on to the desk for support he made his way to the back of his office, collapsing onto the cushion with a sigh. He was still so cold, he rubbed his hands up and down his arms quickly, trying to warm himself. 

“How are you feeling? Seriously, I mean. No more of that 'I'm fine, Dorian, really' nonsense. That wasn't working on me earlier, it certainly won't work now.” Dorian’s voice came from across the room. The mage had a small ball of bright orange fire in his hands, he mumbled words in a language that Cullen couldn’t understand and the ball grew, flickering, and slowly floated through the air until it came to rest near Cullen's desk, hovering just above the ground. The heat from it spread quickly through the room and he leaned forward to be closer to it, relishing the warmth on his skin, a look of immense gratitude on his face.

He opened his mouth to reply and sneezed loudly instead. He took a quick, shaky breath in. “I…” and interrupted himself with another sneeze. He quickly looked around for his handkerchief which he had dropped on the desk. He reached out for it and found he was just a bit too far away and let out a small frustrated whine, sniffled, rubbed at his itchy nose with the back of his wrist and sneezed again, this time stifled against his cuff. 

“Oh, for goodness sake, here. You are a disaster, did you know that? Put you in charge of hundreds of men but moving two feet defeats you, leaving you looking like a lost puppy.” Dorian tried to sound annoyed as he crossed the room, snatched up the piece of cloth and pressed it into Cullen’s hands. 

“Thank you” Cullen muttered, hoping that barely speaking would keep his throat from aching but even those words stung. He blew his nose fiercely but it did little good. His head felt like it was stuffed full of thick, suffocating velvet and he took a moment to try to catch the thread of the conversation. Finally, refusing to meet Dorian’s eyes he said “I feel… like death would be a distinct improvement.”

Dorian chuckled wryly and pulled a small glass vial from a pocket in his robes and uncorked it, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “Here. Drink. It smells revolting though luckily for you I doubt you’ll be able to taste much of anything. It should help.”

“What is it?” Cullen eyed it warily, rather as though Dorian had produced a small, diseased animal from his pocket and was holding it in front of his face. 

“Something Solas brewed up. Embrium, elfroot, some prophet’s laurel… probably a touch of arbor blessing.” Dorian said. “Not magic, if that’s what you were wondering. Odd though, Solas already had this prepared when I asked him to whip something up, said Leliana had asked him to make a batch earlier today.”

 _Of course_ he thought. _Leliana had definitely known. So much for secrets._ He supposed that it was futile to try to keep anything from the spymistress anyway. She may have been the Left Hand of the Divine but she seemed to have hundreds of left hands herself, always in the middle of everything for their mistress. Cullen raised the vial to his mouth and tipped it back. The taste of it made him choke as he swallowed, like anise and garlic and stale ocean water. “Ugh, that’s vile!” he sputtered although he noticed that it made his raw throat feel like it was coated in a thin sheet of ice, ever so slightly protected. He took a sip of water to rinse the taste from his mouth but it remained. “How, ah, did you know to bring it? We had just been speaking, were going to play chess, I remember that… I was not this unwell then.” Cullen trailed off, the words stuck like stinging nettles, bringing on yet another fit of deep, wet, painful coughs. His head fell back onto his knees and he felt his lungs slowly empty of air until he felt himself shoved back upright. 

“Sit up! Really Commander. I would have thought you of all people would understand the importance of proper posture.” Dorian rubbed at the back of his neck. This was more difficult than he had anticipated. “For all of your many gifts I’m afraid you possess all the subtlety of a bog fisher at a masquerade. I highly doubt you were fooling anyone, let alone me. I will admit however that I did not expect to find you in quite this state.”

Despite a growing sense of annoyance at himself Cullen could feel his lips turning up in a small, half smile. “This is not how I would have had you see me” he whispered. He yawned and pressed his palms into his eyes, suddenly exhausted again. _Whatever Solas had made worked quickly_ he thought, _either that or it actually was a trap and I’ve been poisoned_. Right now he couldn't bring himself to care one way or the other, as long as he could sleep. "Dorian, I... thank you." He didn't know quite what it was that he wanted to say, just that he was grateful not to have been left alone. 

His eyes snapped open at the sound of Dorian’s voice. It sounded hesitant, no hint of the brash, self-assuredness he was used to. “Can you…make it up the ladder? You really shouldn't fall asleep in that awful chair.”

He nodded, willing his legs to work. He stood up, running his fingers through his hair he walked slowly across the room and held on to the ladder with both hands. Each rung was agony, the muscles in his shoulders and back screamed as he hauled himself upwards. After what he swore must have been hours of climbing he found himself at the top and in a few more steps fell into his bed, fumbling with the laces on his boots. His fingers were clumsy and he couldn't quite manage them. He swore under his breath and left them on, rolling over and reveling in the softness of the pillows. He hadn't expected to be followed but suddenly he felt the boots gently pulled from his feet. Then came the sudden weight of one blanket on his skin and then another, and another still. He felt the touch of a hand on his back through the pile of blankets, gently but firmly rubbing slow circles. Every sound seemed like it was miles away but he heard himself make a little noise of contentment and sank deeper into the mattress. At any other time he would have been embarrassed but now, he felt too dreadful and was too tired to care.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You stayed.”_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Dorian snorted. “And who, pray tell, would have attempted to poison you further with vile Elvish concoctions if I hadn't? I do have a reputation to keep up, you know.”_

Despite the potion Cullen slept fitfully. No matter which way he turned he couldn’t seem to get comfortable, the ache in his joints had spread and each limb seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. His tunic and the sheets stuck to him, damp with sweat and in between coughing fits he drifted from one nightmare to another. He was overseeing his first Harrowing, just a boy with a sword, hoping against hope that the young mage would not fail. Everything was red, he saw Leliana, the Iron Bull, Josephine, Sera, the Lady Inquisitor and Dorian, all with red crystals growing out of them, pulsing with each heartbeat. He was helpless. He could do nothing. He was trapped, surrounded by abominations, he cried out but no one came. He was alone, utterly. The darkness pressed against his consciousness, threatening to overwhelm him entirely. Then suddenly he felt the mattress sag under him with an unfamiliar weight and a soft, lightly calloused touch on his forehead.

* * *

From across the room where he was perched with his book Dorian heard a soft whimper and a strained “no… leave me…” and shut the pages quickly. Cullen had been restless for hours and Dorian had used the time to catch up on his reading but now the man sounded distressed. He moved swiftly to the side of the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Pulling the tangle of blankets down slightly he studied the man’s face, his jaw was clenched and his eyes screwed shut, his forehead still beaded with sweat and his skin as pale as snow. Cullen looked… frightened, he realized. As though he were facing an enemy in battle. Dorian stroked the man’s brow, running his fingers through his curls. _At any other time I might be enjoying this_ he thought ruefully. On impulse he leaned over and pressed his lips softly against Cullen’s forehead, noting that he seemed to relax under his touch but was still much too warm. He uncorked another vial of Solas’ potion and raised the man’s head back up onto the pile of pillows. “I’m sorry, I know this is dreadful but I promise, it _will_ help” he whispered, not sure for whose benefit he spoke aloud. He softly parted the man’s lips with his fingers and poured the liquid into his mouth. Holding him up while he swallowed Dorian noticed that Cullen’s shirt was soaked and sticking to his clammy skin. As gently as he was able he peeled it off, one arm and then the next. He found a fresh linen shirt next to the bed and eased the man into it, then laid him back on to the pillows.

* * *

When he woke up his mouth tasted like death. He couldn't remember ever being quite this tired. He opened his eyes, bracing for a stab of pain that didn't come and saw shades of pink and orange glimmering through the gaps in the roof - sunrise. He raised himself up slowly, leaning against the headboard of his bed and heard the turn of a page. Slowly looking around he saw him. Dorian. He cleared his throat softly.

“Well, good morning sleeping beauty” Dorian drawled, his eyes wide with barely disguised concern. 

“You stayed.”

Dorian snorted. “And who, pray tell, would have attempted to poison you further with vile Elvish concoctions if I hadn't? I do have a reputation to keep up, you know.”

“You shouldn't have” Cullen choked, panic rising in his throat like bile. “You shouldn't have stayed. I don’t want to get you sick.” He fell back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, hoping Dorian would leave but a small, nagging part of him hoped he wouldn't. He didn't want to be alone but remembering the feel of the mage's fingers tangled in his hair made his stomach swell with a sick, aching, horrible sense of vulnerability that he both needed to stop and craved.

“Hush” he heard, and then “don’t speak.” And then Dorian’s hand was on his cheek and he melted, feeling fingertips lightly tracing against his stubble. “I’m not the one who’s been running myself ragged for weeks, trying single-handedly to save the world. Incidentally in the future? I would strongly advise against that. I’ll be fine.” 

Cullen tried to laugh. A mistake, he thought, when he started to cough instead, he raised himself up on his elbow in a vain attempt to catch his breath. 

“Be quiet!” Dorian hissed. “What did I tell you?” The mage pushed a mug towards him. “Here. Drink this.”

Cullen took the mug, enjoying the warmth of it on his hands. He sniffed it but couldn’t identify any scent. “Dorian, please. If this is any more of that potion I just can’t bear it. It’s so ghastly I think I'd rather keep suffering” he said, jokingly. 

Dorian grinned, amusement lighting his clear grey eyes. “It’s just tea with a bit of honey, I promise. Drink” he ordered. 

Cullen drew the mug closer to his face, inhaling the steam. It felt wonderful on his throat, warming him from the inside. He took a sip and was pleasantly surprised to find that the pain in his throat had eased to a dull roar. He took a longer drink and then another, draining the mug dry. Dorian took it from him, gently setting it on the floor. 

"Water now, you're dehydrated" Dorian said, handing him a cup. He drank from it slowly, relishing how sweet and cool the water was, how it glided down his throat. 

“Feeling better?” The mage’s words were hesitant, Cullen turned to see him searching his face, a worried expression in his eyes and his brow furrowed. 

“Yes” he agreed, momentarily surprised to realize that he did mean it. Then the moment passed and he quickly raised his hands to his face as his breath hitched. He sneezed suddenly, stifling it against his wrist, then whimpered softly. “Ugh, why won't this stop? But yes. Better. A little bit.”

He saw the mage bite his lower lip gently. “You should rest more. Have you eaten? Yesterday, I mean.”

“Not really” he said. “I had tried a bit of porridge but… it was terrible... not that it's ever good. I couldn't finish much. But I’m really not hungry right now.” It was true, all he wanted to do was to go back to sleep but without the nightmares that always plagued him. He sank back onto the pillows with a sigh. 

“I heard you earlier. In your sleep.” Dorian spoke abruptly and then paused. “I don't intend to pry but you sounded… upset. I could help, if you liked. I know a charm. Only if you wanted though.” He trailed off, looking in any direction but at the commander. 

The allure of sleep without terror was too strong to resist. Cullen closed his eyes and nodded, “Yes... I would like that.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Will it…” Cullen hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask. Will I see the burning piles of corpses, my brothers, abominations gliding towards me, their arms reaching out, nowhere to run. My sword, dark with blood. Her blood. Her smile. Skin pale, cold. One red crystal and then the next, pushing upwards through skin, like buds in the spring soil. Will I hear the screaming, unrelenting even after I open my eyes?_

There was nothing but silence for what felt like years. All Cullen could hear was the soft rasp in his own breath and the wind screaming outside. 

“Will it…” Cullen hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask. _Will I see the burning piles of corpses, my brothers, abominations gliding towards me, their arms reaching out, nowhere to run. My sword, dark with blood. Her blood. Her smile. Skin pale, cold. One red crystal and then the next, pushing upwards through skin, like buds in the spring soil. Will I hear the screaming, unrelenting even after I open my eyes?_

“Hurt? No. However with this sort of spell, when you create the connection there can be some... thought transference. There is a very slight possibility you may become aware of some of my mind. Not much, mostly quick flashes of emotion, perhaps an image. Ideally it would not happen at all but once the pathways are open it is extremely difficult to close them quickly enough to prevent it.” Dorian shrugged casually. "And I am hardly a natural healer. It is not exactly a skill that is highly valued back home. I know just enough to be vaguely useful and not dangerous."

“And so you might know mine. I don’t know about this, Dorian” he stuttered. He could feel the cold sweat returning at the thought of sharing everything he struggled to keep under the surface, everything that constantly threatened to overwhelm him, heard the soft, sickening hum of the lyrium that rationally he knew shouldn’t even be present. _No… not now._ The humming grew louder, summoning the all too familiar nausea and he saw Dorian’s face before him, lips twisted in a cruel smile. He gasped as pain stabbed through him like a sword, starting between his collarbones and racing upwards to rest behind his temples, summoning the horrible waves of nausea he dreaded. The angles of his face were wrong, the eyes too dark. He fought back against it, clearing his mind of fire and the screams, the dullness of blood on his blade, the racing of his heart high and fast in his throat. He snapped his eyes open, let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding slowly. Concerned grey met red-tinged amber and there was a question in Dorian’s eyes, one Cullen wasn't sure he could answer. 

Cullen sighed. “I… am haunted by my past, Dorian. I was not a good man then, not one who would have valued your friendship, cared for you.” _Andraste’s mercy, did he really just say that out loud?_ “I am ashamed to remember it, it is not something I would have you see, that you might think less of me.” He coughed and quickly took a sip of water, raised his fingers to the base of his throat and pressed deeply, trying to rub away the tickle that threatened to bloom into a full blown fit. 

“From what little you’ve said of Calenhad and Kirkwall it’s hardly a surprise. We don’t have templars such as you in the North, ours are strictly for show, so I can't say that I entirely understand but what they do… did to you is intolerable.” Dorian’s voice was laced with anger but still surprisingly gentle. “That’s not who you are now, Commander. You know that, everything you've worked for proves it. You need to let it go, stop hanging on to the past.”

He huffed irritatedly. “It’s not that easy. You of all people should know that.” 

“I know” came Dorian’s choked reply, barely audible. “But to answer your question, it is not likely. The connection flows mainly in one direction. There might be small flashes but most of you will be blocked. At least, that would be my intention.” 

Cullen dug a thumb into his temple, the relentless, throbbing ache that never failed to come was flickering behind his eyes. He desperately craved relief, anything that might calm his racing thoughts. 

“Please…” he whispered before he fell back on the pillows, exhausted from the effort. He could feel another spasm building in his lungs, a deep ache in the bones of his ribs, despite his best efforts, teasing, and fighting against the ache in every joint he pulled himself up against the headboard so he could breathe easier. It hardly helped, he coughed until he thought he would collapse and sparks of light danced before his eyes but there was nowhere to fall except back onto the mattress and when he did there were Dorian’s hands, waiting. Dorian’s thumb lightly traced the line of his jaw and then came to rest on the scar that slashed through his upper lip. 

“Alright” the mage whispered.


	8. Chapter 8

Dorian looked down at Cullen who had settled back onto the pile of pillows. He looked smaller now, like a thing easily broken, the blankets strewn haphazardly around him, tossed off between fits of wakefulness and sleep. Odd, Dorian thought, for him to care so deeply. Vulnerability usually drove him away but instead he felt even more drawn to the man. He moved his hand up to Cullen's forehead and frowned. “You’re still incredibly hot” he said critically, plumping the pillows on the bed with his other hand. 

“Took you long enough to notice” Cullen said, his voice cracked forcing a cough, eyes closed but somehow still with a touch of amusement written across his face. 

“Are you.. sassing me, Commander? I didn’t think you had it in you.” They slipped so easily back into their old rhetoric, finding familiar patterns and words that felt comfortable. How could he tell him _I care about you, I worry about you, I think I might just need you_? “Here.” He pressed another vial into the man’s hand and was surprised to see him drink it with no argument. 

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that. You've seen me be an incredible, stubborn idiot. Surely we could cease with any formalities now?” Cullen yawned and stretched deeply, relishing the unclenching of each of muscle, the slow release of tension. 

Dorian snorted lightly and rolled his eyes. “If you like. Now hush, I need to concentrate.”

* * *

His father had always stressed the need to be slow and methodical in his use of magic, the exact opposite of Dorian’s inclinations. Not so for Magister Halward Pavus, always content to take the slowest and most personally rewarding path. Not that he had ever really tried to obey, it went against his very nature. As much as he hated to admit it, Varric’s judgment of “all flash and no heat” rang true - how else would a young mage, barely out of the Circle, have become Alexius’s brilliant protege? Who else could have brought the Inquisitor back, from being stuck out of time by a spell inconceivable to normal minds, in the minutes it took a quiver of arrows to empty? This, though. This had to be perfect. 

One thread and then the next, like skillfully untangling a knot, teasing one thought and then the next from the nest they’d come to rest in. He could feel the song of Cullen’s fears and memories deep into his bones, a throbbing, aching mess that threatened to overwhelm him. Pulsing, humming, his head spun with the weight of them. Then suddenly, darkness. He took advantage of the brief respite to seize upon the first thread. As he reached out for it he suddenly saw Alexius, his face before Felix, full of hope and… he threw up a barrier, quick and glimmering. This was not something that Cullen needed to see. He should have had it up before... _Kaffas!_ He had promised to be careful and instead had left himself open. 

He closed his eyes, mouthed a brief containment charm and continued forward. Here Cullen’s mind was strictly regimented, organized, he freed one thought then the next with an ease that would have worried him had his thoughts been on anything but conquest and then... He saw a young girl, then older, her light brown eyes full of worry. _Mia_. Swiftly he turned away, this was not where he needed to be. 

All around him were echoes of thoughts buried. Tangled tendrils, strands twisted and coiled into confusion and fear, tinged with horror. _Meredith. No! That is not her face! Please… forgive me._ He took a deep breath in and another, then another still. This… All of this was supposed to be hidden. He screwed his eyes shut tighter and clenched his fingernails into his palms, focusing on the pain to finally unleash the healing, warming light he’d carried with him all this way.

* * *

Cullen tried his best to stay calm. He could feel… something… deep inside of him. He took as deep a breath in as he dared, letting it out slowly but raggedly. He concentrated on the lines of Dorian’s face, taking one breath in and then the next, slowing himself as he felt a sudden rush of dizziness. He felt a wave of extreme pride, saw the smile of a man who looked so very familiar but who he couldn't quite place. A single moment of shining, beautiful glory. Anger and... fear. A sudden terror, a struggle to get away and an unbearable, all-consuming sense of loss. Then darkness, quiet, he was lost, overwhelmed with the sound of footsteps ringing across cobblestones, speeding up now, escaping. _Get out! You are no son of mine!_ and the connection went pitch black. He felt a horrible, biting cold seep into his bones and then suddenly a warmth unlike anything he had ever felt before. 

It grew in him, second by second, brighter now. The light seeped into each crevice, warming, filling, until it grew too big and moved on, leaving a wonderful sense of peace in its wake. The warmth grew larger, it lit up every part of him until he knew he would be destroyed by it and then it faded, leaving nothing but a blissful quiet behind it. 

He felt Dorian shift on the side of his bed, the weight of him gone and then he heard one soft footstep and another, growing distant, walking away. For one moment, the first in a very long time, he felt reckless and took a chance, tossing aside caution and reason.

“Will you stay? Please?” he murmured, balancing precariously on the precipice between sleep and waking. 

The next thing he knew was an arm gently thrown across his chest and the warmth of the mage’s breath against the back of his neck. 

“Sleep, amatus” Dorian whispered. And Cullen did.


	9. Chapter 9

Dorian woke a few hours later with a sudden start and a horrible headache, the sort that always came after overextending himself magically. He looked around blearily, blinking the gritty sleep away from his eyes. He was overwhelmed with the sensation that he’d just awoken from a nightmare but the few wisps of memory he was able to grab at were wholly unrecognizable. He was in an unfamiliar bed, in a room that ached with cold. He shivered and pulled the quilt tighter over him, looking upwards only to find shards of night sky crossed with slats of wood. He heard a soft, sleepy sigh and felt a weight on the mattress shift next to him. 

Of course, he realized, the memory of the day before flowing back through him. _Cullen_. He sat up slowly, stepped delicately over the still-sleeping man and quietly climbed the ladder down. He needed a drink. He poured a glass of wine full to bursting from the bottle he’d left on the bookshelf, pity it had been so long really - it would have been better hours ago but still, this was better than nothing. He gulped it back, nearly choking on the first swallow. He collapsed heavily in Cullen’s armchair and took another long, slow sip. He should go back upstairs, he thought to himself, but suddenly he wasn’t sure if he was still welcome. The man had seemed pleased enough for his company but that was then, _this_ was now. He had overstepped, he thought. He’d known before he even made the offer that it was too much, a crossing of boundaries that had yet to be put into words, but in his haste to stop the pain from overwhelming both of them he’d been hasty. He always did leap in with both feet, never thinking to stop and test the waters. And he had done it all because, he realized, he cared about Cullen Rutherford. _Maybe even loved_ he thought with a sudden flash of horror, thinking back to his words of the night before. He groaned under his breath, knowing that this was going to be a huge problem. He’d have to stop their meetings, their chess games, their nights at the tavern and all because he had been foolish enough not to guard his heart. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ He would miss the man's friendship but after his display of weakness... there was no way it could possibly continue. 

The memories of what he had let slip through the barrier haunted him. Dorian could only hope that perhaps Cullen wouldn’t pick up on the significance of what must have come pouring through the link, wouldn’t recognize the traces of himself in his father - _he says we’re too much alike, too much pride_. His thoughts slipped towards what he had seen and guiltily he tried to shake them off. What had that name meant? _Surana_. A twinge of pain swept behind his eyes and he poured another glass, drinking it quickly, grateful for the deadening of his headache, the muffling of the gaze of her dark, knowing eyes. He decided that he didn’t want to know. 

“Hi” he heard, followed closely by a dry, itchy-sounding cough. Dorian twitched violently at the sound of Cullen’s voice - hesitant but almost sounding like himself again - nearly slopping wine all over the desk. He swore vigorously and took a deep breath, arranging the smile that would be expected across his face. He hadn’t heard the man come down the ladder and, truth be told, he wasn’t ready for any company at all let alone the commander’s but if it was forced upon him he would play the part, he always did. 

“Ah! Back to the land of the living, I see. Excellent. It’s not as though commanders of standing armies grow on trees, replacing you would have been difficult to say the least.” 

Cullen chuckled softly to himself, then yawned and stretched, blinking slowly and sleepily afterwards. He padded over towards the desk, running his fingers through his hair, somehow managing to make himself appear even more sleep-rumpled than before. He paused for a moment, fixing a questioning gaze on the mage’s face and softly cleared his throat. “You left…” 

He’d not changed into his armor, instead attired in a pair of loose linen pants that hung loosely off his hips and a thick, knitted sweater and Dorian thought how young and vulnerable he looked out of his normal finery, he might as well still have been a Chantry boy just woken up for morning prayers. Despite himself he felt a smile - a real smile - spreading across his face. He poured water from the ewer on the desk into a glass and pushed it towards Cullen who took it and drank deeply, a grateful look on his face. 

“I couldn't sleep. I didn’t want to wake you,” he lied. He raised his hand up and laid it across the man's forehead, making a little satisfied noise at how cool it finally felt, no longer beaded with feverish sweat. “Feeling better?” 

“I… yes. Dorian?” Cullen looked troubled, like he wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to continue speaking. He rubbed at the back of his neck - a nervous habit, Dorian recognized. “That word… what you called me last night. Amatus. What does it mean?” His tongue stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar word, rolling it around in his mouth, savoring it. 

Dorian’s heart sank, he’d been hoping to avoid this exact conversation, hoping his words had been forgotten, and instead had run straight into almost assured disaster with no warning whatsoever. 

He took a moment to clear his thoughts, to try to quell the panic building in him, to still his racing heart. “It, ah, means… beloved. In Tevene.” The words came out a whisper, he turned to look towards the door, definitely away from the man standing much too close to him. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have. It was a liberty I should not have taken. I suppose it's too late for you forget it.” 

The room was silent for what felt like hours to Dorian, he readied himself for anger, confusion, rejection but when the man’s words came he found none. 

“Did you mean it?” 

Dorian felt as though he was standing on the edge of a cliff, nothing but jagged rocks and sea below. One wrong move in any direction and he'd fall. He closed his eyes tightly and leapt. There were no other paths to carry him away from here. “Yes… I suppose I did. Do, I mean. I’m sorry.” 

The only answer he received was the sudden touch of soft lips against his forehead and words pressed against his skin. "Then I don't want to forget it". 


End file.
